Remember Me
by Reiko Katsura
Summary: Complete. The war's ended, and just when Harry Potter begins to believe that his fighting is over, he's proved wrong. HPDM Slash.
1. I Will Still Be Here

**Title: **Remember Me

**Author: **Reiko Katsura

**Rating: **R

**Pairings:** Harry/Draco, Draco/OFC. Others.

**Warnings: **AU following OotP.

**Word Count: **~19,230

**Mental Health Issues: **Early Onset Dementia, brief mention of Anorexia.

**Summary:** The war has ended, and just when Harry Potter begins to believe that his fighting is over, he's proved wrong.

**A/N: **This was written for _HP Mental Health Fest_, and was inspired by the song "Remember Me" by Josh Groban. To warn everyone, I had to stop writing several times because I couldn't see past my tears. This is not a happy fic. If angst/tragedy doesn't bother you, then read away. I hope you enjoy reading the story even half as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Much thanks to my wonderful beta **songquake**, whose thorough and insightful comments and suggestions, and quick beta-ing skill, never fail to amaze me. Also, my appreciation to **tania_sings** for looking this over before the submission date and for the heartfelt encouragement. Thanks, lovelies.

***UPDATE: **This story is in the process of being revised. I'll put up a note when the entire thing has been republished. Until then, keep in mind that this fic was a major rush job, and even with two beta readers could not be at it's finest. I'm working on making it more presentable, and tying up all loose ends.

* * *

**:Part One:**

* * *

I look into the mirror. I'm in the bathroom and the lights are mute, casting the mirror into an obscure hue of iridescent blue. My ordinarily tanned skin seems ashen, sickeningly white in my shadowed reflection.

I'm panting above the sound of the dripping faucet; the heavy breathing is causing my torso to shake. My eyes narrow, squinting into the blurry parallel. I look almost as frustrated, almost as angry, as I feel. Questions are whirling in my head faster than flying pixies, rapid recollections of the things I've been considering for the past week, for the past month, for the past three months.

Where did I place my Firebolt? Where did I stash my Auror reports? Where have I put my _wand_?

I can't remember. I can't remember anything.

A wave of fury, so strong my knees nearly buckle, washes over me, and without thinking I clench my fist and send it flying into the mirror, into my distorted reflection.

The silver shards crack and crumble down to the sink, creating a piercing _clinking_ sound that grates on my nerves. My knuckles are bleeding profusely, and I can see tiny pieces of glass embedded into my tattered hand, but I don't feel it.

Before long, I don't feel anything.

In an instant the sound of my name is being shouted from the outside, accompanied by urgent banging on the wooden door.

I slowly bring my hand down and stare at it.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Harry asked the Healer hoarsely, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him to death.

The Healer, a woman named Marcy Humberbeck, nodded gravely. "Yes, Mr. Potter. I'm sorry, but there is nothing further that can be done. The dementia has already spread too far—"

"And not even Wizarding medicine can help? Not even Muggle medicine?" Harry demanded, interrupting.

Healer Humberbeck shook her head, and her large brown curls folded and unfolded as she did. "I'm sorry Mr. Potter, but this is not some common illness. It's a mental deterioration. Even magic, as advanced as it is, cannot hope to cure all ailments of the human brain."

Harry exhaled an unsteady breath. All he could think was that this wasn't happening. This could _not_ _be_ _happening_. Of all things… Of all _people._ Christ, couldn't he have been given a fucking break? A break from the things that set out to destroy any of his chances of living normally? Of him being happy? Of having a _life_?

It was just too much—too fucking _much._

"Maybe there's a mistake. Maybe you interpreted the symptoms incorrectly?" Harry pleaded with the woman. He glanced away when her look turned pitying.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Potter," was all she said.

Harry closed his eyes. His hands started to tremble, and he quickly shoved them into the pockets of his robes.

"How long?" He forced out, and the words that escaped his mouth tasted nastier than bile.

Healer Humberbeck looked him straight in the eye and began to speak in a tone that made him believe she had memorized this information right from the brown board she kept glancing at every so often. "A few months, I'd say. These things can vary. It comes quicker to some people, and slower to others. Quite frankly, it's rare for a man your age, so there's not much to base calculations on. Judging by the progression of the disease in the past two months, and based on the information gathered from your scans, I can approximate complete regression in a manner of months—twelve to fifteen, more  
specifically."

Harry shot up from his chair and shouted, "Twelve to fifteen _months_?"

The Healer didn't so much as bat an eyelash at his outburst. "Approximately? Yes."

"Bloody hell," Harry whispered, and fell back into his seat, feeling for all the world as if his bones had been removed from his body. He looked at the Healer imploringly and asked, "But isn't…_this_ hereditary? Doesn't it usually start from _something_?"

Healer Humberbeck cleared her throat. "While that is the case for most, it is not always." She paused, and added slowly, "Though it appears, Mr. Potter, that your Mother's family has a history of dementia in—"

"Oh, that's just fucking great!" Harry exploded. "And no one ever thought to tell _me_ about this, did they?"

"It is my guess that no one knew. Lily Evans was Muggleborn, and so her family records hadn't been filed in the St. Mungo's record division. It took quite a while for me to get those records myself, even with knowing what to look for."

Harry grunted, but otherwise didn't respond.

"May I suggest something, Mr. Potter?" the Healer asked cautiously.

Harry glanced at her from under his long, dark fringe, and snapped, "What?"

If she was about to suggest he kill himself now, then Harry didn't think he'd be able to object. Not when it sounded like such a damn good idea.

Apparently not taking any offense at Harry's attitude, the Healer cleared her throat. "Keep a journal."

Despite the nausea that was steadily rising to his chest, Harry somehow managed to feel curious, despite him, and quirked an eyebrow at her.

"A journal, Mr. Potter," Healer Humberbeck elaborated, "where you can write down things, like your feelings or your thoughts, or notes and reminders, or just memories. Things that will keep you calm, and you can use as a––"

"No."

The Healer frowned at him, and Harry shook his head stubbornly. "No, I don't need one. There isn't any use. What good will it do in the long run, anyways?"

"But Mr. Po––"

"I said _no_." Harry said firmly.

The Healer nodded, pursing her lips in obvious disapproval. Harry didn't care.

When the walls of the spacious office began to feel as if they were closing in on him, and Harry genuinely tired of being in the presence of the Healer, he asked the woman if he could leave. With a sympathetic nod and a reminder to return to the hospital for an appointment in two weeks time, she dismissed him with a tiny nod of her head.

Harry left the hospital quicker than his Firebolt could fly.

* * *

It was hours later when the sun had started to fall, and the sky had begun to darken with the looming night, that Harry silently slipped into his flat, a ridiculously large top-floor apartment in one of the more nicer buildings in Muggle London.

He hauled off his shoes and set them beside the door, then shrugged off his jacket and slung it onto the coat rack. He quietly shut the door, shivering at the cold air that seeped from the hall, and set the metal chain to lock.

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed at his tired eyes as he walked into the sitting room. He was so unbelievably exhausted. Thinking and wallowing in self-pity had turned out to be more time consuming that he remembered it being. He'd only gone to Diagon Alley in the first place to clear his head before venturing home to be confronted by his partner who he hadn't bothered to let know of his whereabouts. Harry'd wanted to avoid that for at least a little while, and so had settled for taking a short walk, which hasn't been so short at the end of things.

He'd been so focused on his thoughts that he'd gone right into Knockturn Alley without noticing. He'd _Apparated_ out of _there_ as quickly as possible, and into an empty alleyway nearly a mile from his flat, intending to walk the rest of the way. The way he'd figured it, he was already in trouble, anyway—there really was no need to rush it.

Harry returned his glasses to his nose and entered the warm, open room, all but melting at the oppressive reach of the hearth. And then he noticed Draco, who standing by the couch with his arms folded and a furious scowl darkening his face, and the heat stopped feeling quite as good.

_Maybe_, Harry thought tiredly, as Draco took a menacing step forward, _I should have _Apparated_ two miles away instead._

"Where have you _been_?" Draco snapped at him, accusingly.

"Out," Harry said, not in any mood to deal with his boyfriend at the moment. He meant to move forward and walk right past Draco, but Draco stepped directly in front of him, successfully making him stop.

"Don't you fucking _dare_ take on that attitude with _me_, Harry," Draco hissed, his gray eyes darkening to the color of cooling coal. "I want to know where the fuck you've been for the entire day, without so much as telling me!"

The area just above his eyes was starting to throb, and Harry had to refrain from rubbing his temples. Draco would take it as him being annoying—which Harry couldn't very much deny at the moment—and snap.

"I didn't know I had to tell you everything I do, Draco." Harry narrowed his eyes.

If possible, Draco's face contorted more furiously. "You do, you prat, when you decide to disappear on me, not even bothering to send a _note_ that you would be gone, and won't make it back in time for dinner!"

"This isn't the first time I missed dinner, Draco," Harry pointed out wearily.

Draco gritted his teeth. "No, but it is the first time you've missed it on our anniversary!"

Draco's words drifted into his ears, thundering, and Harry stared at him in shock. Before he had a chance to open his mouth—to say what, he didn't know—Draco had already stormed away from him.

The sound of a door slamming reverberated into the living room, and Harry closed his eyes.

Merlin, it was their anniversary. Their fifth year of living together, he realized, now that he could remember.

It was their anniversary, and he'd forgotten.

Harry buried his face into his arms and swallowed heavily.

And he knew it just wouldn't stop there.

* * *

When Harry slipped into his and Draco's room that night, Draco was already sleeping, curled onto his side and facing the wall—a position he'd taken to whenever he was upset with Harry.

Harry sighed wearily. He spelled off his clothes and on his night-robes, something he usually preferred to do without magic, and slowly walked over to the bed. He nudged the edge of the mattress roughly and watched Draco's form. When he was certain that his lover was indeed asleep, Harry slid into the bed beside him, pulled the green covers up to his chin, and stared up at the ceiling.

It had been a month since he and Draco had had sex. A feat, really, since just two months ago they were still shagging like hippogriffs in heat nearly every night, and sometimes more than once.

Harry grunted and removed his glasses from his face, then placed them onto the bedside table.

He just wasn't in the mood anymore. No, that wasn't entirely true. On more than one occasion he'd felt stirrings of arousal. And then he'd think about what was going on with him, the tests the Healer had ordered and why they were necessary, and his dick would deflate faster than an air balloon with a hole. Draco, eventually, when he wasn't getting any other answer from Harry except from him "not being in the mood," had stopped trying to have sex so often. After a while, he'd stopped trying at all.

Harry closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. His head was hurting. He wondered if it was a symptom of his condition, or simply stress. Not that he would ever research it himself. He figured that the less he thought of what was happening, the more time it would take to actually happen. Mind over matter, and all that.

Harry laid there for moments, watching the enchanted stars on the ceiling flutter around, and inwardly begged for sleep to come.

* * *

**Part Two**

* * *

Another shelf came crashing down, and Harry stared at it, panting. He tore his eyes across his and Draco's now-destroyed bedroom wildly, jaw clenched and ears tensed.

He couldn't find them. He couldn't find his glasses.

There were clothes—mostly his, since Draco kept the majority of his attire in one of the spare bedrooms—scattered on the floor, shredded to every inch of their materials' lives. Glass, from the silver chandelier that once lined the ceiling in an glistening web-like vine, laid shattered on the floor, its broken shards making the tanned-color rug beneath his feet look like sand. The mirrors that folded against the walls wore cracks, the walls all bore scorch marks and punctures from wildly fired spells. The room smelt of burnt plastic and spoiled mandrake root. The spells, having been cast in rapid succession, made the large space swell up in foggy air and tiny sparks.

_They were there_, Harry thought to himself, angrily. _I put them right there._

After Draco had gone off to work—early, for a presentation— Harry had started getting ready to head in to the Ministry himself. He'd undressed in the bedroom, grabbed a towel from one of his drawers, and walked out into the hall fully in the nude, as he always did when there was no one home.

He took a bath, washed his hair with Draco's very expensive shampoo that smelled of vanilla, brushed his teeth, dried up, and walked back to the bedroom to get dressed.

It was just after he finished buttoning his robes that he went to retrieve his glasses from the bedside table and noticed they weren't there.

Harry could remember placing them there, however. He could remember _always_ placing them there. He wouldn't necessarily call it a routine, but he did follow a certain morning pattern. Harry would always take his glasses off right after he took off his clothes, and the placed them on the table next to his side of the bed. He remembered, quite clearly, doing the same that morning.

Only, he didn't _really_ remember—not exactly. But he felt that he did, as he did every morning. And why wouldn't he follow his morning pattern? Where else could he have placed them?

Harry kicked at the lamp by his foot, and sent it skidding to the foot of the bed, where it thudded into it loudly.

It wasn't as if he couldn't see without his glasses; after the war, he'd gone to a Healer to fix most of his eyesight ailments. The glasses he wore now were mostly for reading and for very long distances. They were worn more out of habit than anything else. The fact was, he didn't need them.

That wasn't the point, however.

The point was that he couldn't remember what he'd done with them, the same way he couldn't remember if he submitted his Auror report to Kingsley, or what Draco's middle name was, or if he'd already cleaned behind his ears.

Harry let out a frustrated yell and stomped his foot. The plush-piled floor absorbed the impact, softened the sound, and it left him dissatisfied. He stomped again, and again, and again, until he could hear the stomping as loudly as he would have if the rug had not been there—no matter the pain it caused to the sole of his foot. When his foot began to tingle, and the muscles in his leg started to tire, Harry sank to the floor in an exhausted heap and buried his face in his hands. He stood there for a moment, allowing his erratic breathing to calm down, then sighed and scanned the disaster he'd caused in the room.

"Draco's going to murder me," he said aloud, then chuckled.

Not only was he sick, but he was going insane, too.

At least the Prophet would have something to boast about. They'd been speculating just when the famous Harry Potter, vanquisher of You-Know-Bloody-Who, would go around the twist.

He would make Rita Skeeter's year.

Harry sighed again, and lifted himself to his feet. The one he'd stomped with was already starting to throb. He rotated his shoulders backwards and made to move outside, when something caught his attention.

There, lying on the windowsill, were his glasses.

Harry froze. He could remember now, that it wasn't the bedside table he always placed his glasses on, but the windowsill. He'd always knock them down in the mornings, searching for his wand, and on more than one occasion had to get them replaced because they were cracked.

When his tears started to fall down his cheeks, he didn't even notice.

* * *

"Harry, have you already gotten Hermione's gift?"

Harry frowned at Ron, confused. They were sitting at the table in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, eating mashed potatoes and gravy from the night before, and discussing the Chudley Cannons' recent advancement to the Quidditch World Cup, their highest achievement in more than two decades. Harry dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a mint-colored—and flavored—napkin, and asked what Ron was talking about.

Ron gaped at him. "Blimey, Harry! Don't tell me you've forgotten it's 'Mione's birthday this week!"

Harry frowned deeper. "But Hermione's birthday isn't until—," he paused, and glanced at the calendar on the wall. It read September 17th right at the top, in bold red letters.

Hermione's birthday was on the 19th.

"Bugger," Harry breathed.

Ron snorted. "That's an understatement, Harry."

Harry closed his eyes and stared into his cup of steaming butterbeer. He'd forgotten. He'd actually forgotten one of his best friends' birthdays. He wondered, miserably, what else he'd forgotten about.

"Are you and Malfoy having problems or something?"

Harry jerked abruptly, startled at Ron's sudden question. He shot his friend a perplexed look, and wondered what he had done to give him that idea.

As if understanding exactly what Harry was thinking—and Harry wouldn't have been surprised if he did; they'd been friends for so long—Ron elaborated, "Mate, besides Hermione, and probably George, you have the best memory of anyone I know. You don't forget birthdays—especially not someone as close to you as Hermione. That means you've been distracted lately, and since I know it's not because of work (me being your partner and all), the only other thing in this world that could make you forget one of your best friend's birthday is trouble with the boyfriend—" Ron paused, and then added, "or the regeneration of Voldemort. I think you forgot when Ginny's birthday was after he killed you."

Harry made a soft, almost strangled sound that could have possibly been taken for an amused laugh, and set his mug down.

"Thinking of quitting the Auror force to become a Psychiatrist, are you?"

Ron blinked. "Sychiowhat?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "A mind-Healer."

"Oh," Ron said, and brightened as soon as he was back on familiar ground, "No, I've just become more observant. I'm married to Hermione, after all. Something was bound to rub off."

"Definitely wasn't her brain," Harry quipped in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Prat." Ron scowled.

Harry grinned.

"Really, Harry, what's up? Hermione's birthday aside, you haven't been acting like yourself these past couple of weeks. I mean—and you didn't hear this from me—but I heard from Bill who heard from George who heard from Ginny who heard from Fleur who heard from Hermione who heard from Charlie that you even skipped out on that reservation Draco planned for your anniversary last week."

Ron paused, and scrunched his brows. "Wait, did you get that?

Harry blinked and shook his head.

"Okay, well, Draco told Charlie who told Hermione who told Fleur—"

"I got it, Ron!" Harry interrupted, exasperated.

Ron looked chagrined. "Right."

They fell into a heavy silence, and Harry didn't have to look at Ron to know that he was staring a hole into his head, waiting for an answer.

Sighing, Harry shrugged his shoulders. "I had a lot of things on my mind. I took a walk in Diagon Alley to clear my head, and just forgot about the time. That's all, Ron, really." Harry wasn't going to mention that he had been so lost in thought that he'd somehow ended up so far into Knockturn Alley that all he could smell for the next few days was hag filth and dust. Ron would send him to St. Mungo's. He didn't want to be sent there any sooner than was necessary.

Ron didn't look convinced. "You know, Harry, that Draco and I don't get on that well, even with Hogwarts being so far behind us. Still, I could tell how much he bloody loves you. Maybe you haven't noticed, but he's been looking like right shit, Harry."

Harry's eyes widened at Ron's revelation. "What?"

Ron groaned and banged his head onto the table. His red hair, almost shoulder length, nearly fell into the plate of mashed potatoes when he did.

"Merlin's beard, Harry! Where have you been the last few weeks! How could you _not_ have noticed?"

"Draco looks fine, Ron!" Harry argued back, defensively. He thought back to yesterday, when Draco was sitting across from him at the dining table, and tried to recall any change in his partner's appearance.

Harry chewed on his bottom lip and scrunched his brows. Alright, so maybe Draco _had_ gotten a bit thinner in the last few weeks. He could have been on a diet, though. Draco always complained that he was gaining weight.

_When was the last time you heard him say that_, a small voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Ron asked. _How could you not know if the person you're living with is on a diet? How could you not realize that your own lover's been losing weight?_

Harry shook his head, desperate to expel those thoughts. Draco was fine. So what if he lost a few pounds? It was hardly a health issue. Ron was being overdramatic again. He was over thinking things. If Draco was ill, he would have gone to Harry. He was never one to keep his mouth shut when he was sick.

Harry would have known if he was. Definitely.

"Draco's fine, Ron," Harry repeated, and brought his cup to his lips. He inhaled deeply, and the warm smell of honeyed butter that wafted to his nose made the tense muscles in his shoulders relax a little. "I would know if he wasn't."

Ron quirked his eyebrow at Harry and gave him an I-don't-quite-believe-you look, then shrugged one shoulder and returned to his mashed potatoes.

Harry fiddled with his cup for a few moments before he finally set it to his lips and took a drink.

Draco was fine. Ron was just overreacting. A few pounds lost was nothing, anyway.

Nothing compared to what he was going through.

* * *

The first time Harry and Draco Malfoy kissed had been sheer accident. It has been the middle of sixth year, when Harry had been most suspicious of his archrival's odd behavior. Harry had followed him one day, to the haunted girl's bathroom on the first floor, and had caught him crying.

Draco had seen him, and soon after they'd tumbled into a magic fight. Harry wasn't exactly sure how it happened, but their fight had somehow turned physical. They'd gone from firing spells at each other from a distance, to throwing fists while scrambling on the floor.

Harry couldn't remember who kissed who first. All he could recall, when thinking back, was that Draco's tongue had been in his mouth, lapping at his own tongue, and Harry's very inexperienced hand had somehow slipped into Draco's trousers. It must have been the mind-rattling orgasm that had caused Draco Malfoy to spill all his secrets of the preceding months to Harry Potter.

Harry had somehow managed to convince Draco to tell Dumbledore, and in less than half a day Draco and his mother, Narcissa, were under Dumbledore's sworn protection. Draco left school—as it was no longer safe for him – and his mother fled from their Manor. They'd moved intoGrimmauld Place, safe under the Fidelius Charm. It hadn't been until the summer holiday, months after Draco left school, that they ran across each other again.

Harry could remember who kissed whom first that time, however.

It had been Draco.

* * *

"Happy Birthday, Hermione," Harry said, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. They were standing by the foyer of the Burrow. Harry summoned his jacket with his wand and slipped it on.

Hermione beamed at him, her dark brown eyes shining with absolute joy, and said, "Thanks, Harry. I love the present you and Draco gave me. I've been looking for 'Helgatha Emereth's Guide to Magical Theory as a Scientific Sequence' for ages! I didn't even know they had any copies left!"

Harry grinned. "It was all Draco's doing, really. You know how he is with finding valuable things."

Hermione nodded. She paused, and then said, "It's a shame he couldn't make it. I was quite looking forward to seeing him."

Harry fidgeted with his gloves, struggling to get them on.

"He wasn't feeling too well, apparently," he answered, finally.

Hermione frowned. "Is he alright?"

"He wasn't feeling too well, apparently."

Hermione blinked, and furrowed her brows. "Harry, are _you_ alright?"

"What do you mean?" He asked, curiously.

"Well, you just repeated yourself."

"I did?" Harry asked, surprised.

"You did." Hermione confirmed, and the look she was getting in her eyes let Harry know that she was getting suspicious.

He gulped and said hurriedly, "I'm just tired."

"Are you sure?" Hermione pressed.

"Yeah," Harry lied.

"Right," Hermione said, unconvinced. Thankfully, she didn't push any further.

"How was Draco, again?"

It was Harry's turn to blink. What? But they hadn't been talking about Draco. Had they?

"I'm not too sure," he played along, unsurely. "He wouldn't tell me what was up with him—only that he wasn't feeling very well and wanted to stay home."

Harry left out the bit that Draco had all but hexed him to leave him alone, and absolutely refused to talk to him all morning.

Hermione's frowned deepened. "Harry, are the two of you alright?"

Harry narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

Hermione hesitated. "It's just that—"

"Hermione! Mum's brought the cake out!" Ron's voice interrupted from down the hall.

Hermione glanced in the direction the voice came from and shouted back, "I'll be right there!"

Ron yelled something back, but it couldn't be heard over the sound of Mrs. Weasley yelling at George to lay his hands off the cake.

"Boys," Hermione rolled her eyes. She looked at Harry, who was dressed to leave, and asked "Are you sure you don't want to stay for a bit? At least until we cut the cake?"

"Sorry, 'Mione, but I really shouldn't leave Draco home alone any longer."

Hermione nodded. "Alright. I'm glad you were able to make it, Harry."

"I wouldn't have missed it," he smiled. They said a few more words and Harry kissed Hermione on the cheek again and Apparated out.

* * *

The wards placed around the block of Harry and Draco's flat prevented Apparation, so Harry had to Apparate to an alley three blocks away. He walked through the streets quickly, his arms folded over his chest. It was cold for mid-September, and it didn't help that it was drizzling. If Harry had been in a more wizard-oriented area he would have cast a warming and rain-repellant charm on himself. As it was, with Muggles rushing down the blocks left and right, he had to make do by hurrying along with them.

By the time he reached the stairs to his apartment building it had already started to rain more heavily. He stepped inside the building and quickly began to remove his damp clothes.

The edifice they lived in had been chosen by Draco in the earlier years of their relationship, just after the war. He and Draco had spent nearly half a year looking at flats. This building, the last one they looked at of over thirty places, had been the only Muggle residence Draco had deemed acceptable enough to live in. The previous owners had designed it as a house for a single family, rather than a shared building. Draco had decided to keep it the same way, despite the largeness of it—and very much to Harry's displeasure. It had taken years for him to get comfortable in a place so huge. Now, Harry couldn't imagine living anywhere else.

He scanned the walls, all paper white with strips of mint green and silver, forlornly as he made his way to the living room. He wondered how long it would take for this place—for the only place aside from Hogwarts he considered his home—to be forgotten. How long he would have before he was no longer able to recognize the faces of the people in the portraits and frames hanging on the walls, or identify the small ornaments scattered around that he and Draco had picked throughout the years.

Would he forget Ron and Hermione and Dumbledore and all of the Weasleys? Would he forget all the things he'd accomplished over the years—the sacrifices he'd made, the things he'd gained?

He wondered if he would be able to remember his own name at the end of it. Or the name of his parents. Or that the man he loved more than anything else in the world was Draco Malfoy.

Harry hadn't even realized that he'd been moving until he was standing before his bedroom door, staring at the dark wood as if it held all the answers to his problems.

Harry closed his eyes and reined in the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. When he was sure that he wouldn't start crying at the sight of Draco, or that his voice wouldn't falter and break, he turned the knob and moved in.

* * *

Harry filled his plate with toast, eggs, and bacon, then poured syrup on everything. He served himself a glass of orange juice—extra pulp—and reached for his fork.

Before he began to eat, he took a glance at Draco from across the table, then at his plate, and frowned.

"Is that all you're eating, Draco?" he asked. There was nothing on his lover's plate besides half an apple and a piece of toast.

Draco looked up at Harry, and Harry flinched.

"Are… are you alright, Draco?" he asked, finally, when the lump that had formed in his throat moved down to a more bearable level.

Draco looked, to be honest, horrible. His skin was far paler than Harry could ever remember it being, which was something considering that Draco was the whitest person he knew. His cheek bones, now that Harry was studying him closer, were sunken, slanting into his face like the line on a snake. Even his hair, which had always seemed to shine, appeared dull and lanky.

Draco shot him an indescribable look and nodded slowly. "I'm fine."

Harry scrunched his brows. "Are you sure, Draco? Because you look—"

"I said I'm fucking fine!"

Harry jumped, startled by the sudden outburst, and his fork clattered to the table, loud in the sudden quiet.

Harry swallowed heavily.

"Alright," he said, still looking at Draco.

Something flashed across Draco's face, and for a second Harry thought he would start to cry. The look faded after a slow blink, however, and disappeared entirely when Draco dropped his head to focus on his plate.

The silence that ensued was uncomfortable. The only sound to be heard was of Harry's metal fork scraping against the glass plate every so often, and the crunch of the apple between Draco's teeth.

Before Harry was even a quarter finished with his breakfast, the sound of wood scraping against the floor pulled his attention away from his plate, and he glanced up to see Draco standing.

"I'm done," Draco said quietly and pointed his wand at his plate. Before it was banished to the sink, Harry saw that Draco hadn't even touched his toast.

"Draco," Harry started, but he ignored him. He walked past Harry silently, until he was out of the dining room altogether.

Harry stared after him, head craned in the direction of the door, long after Draco left.

* * *

**TBC.**


	2. As Long As You Hold Me

**Remember Me**

**_By Reiko Katsura_**

**Rating: **R

**Pairings: **Main: Harry/Draco, Side: Hermione Ron, Mentioned/Other: Kingsley/Bones, Draco/OFC

**Warnings: **AU following OoTp

**Word**** Count: **~19,000+

**Mental Health Issues: **Early Onset Dementia, brief mention of Anorexia

**Summary:** The war's ended, and just when Harry Potter begins to believe that his fighting is over, he's proved wrong.

**A/N: **I really hate leaving you guys hanging. I'll post part 3 soon. It really should be read in one go. More emotional that way.

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**:Part Three:**

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"So you're telling me, that by doing these…"

"Cognitive exercises, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded. "That by doing cognitive exercises… I might be able to forestall the dementia for a while longer?"

Healer Humberbeck hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Your case is slightly different than most people who suffer from Early Alzheimer's, Mr. Potter. You are—relatively—younger than most people diagnosed with the dementia, by at least two decades. A case such as yours is almost unheard of…"

The Healer noticed the irritated look Harry was sending her way, and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "As you well know, there aren't many Wizards who develop this sort of dementia, even among those who are elder. I've spoken to quite a few Healers who have treated Wizards with Alzheimer's—and no, Mr. Potter, your identity has not been disclosed—about ways to delay the disease. One Healer, from Wales, directed me to a Muggle institution known as the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, which performed a rather large study on the development and possible postponement of Alzheimer's. The study showed that people who indulge in mentally stimulating activities each day can delay the effects of Alzheimer's—not all, but a good portion of the memory loss—for up to two months."

Harry stared at the Healer, and let everything she said sink in. It wasn't a concrete course to take, but that didn't matter. If he could hold the disease off for even two more months…

"And what kind of activities do you mean?" Harry asked.

The Healer smiled at him. "Nothing too strenuous, Mr. Potter. Simple things like reading, writing, solving puzzles and crosswords, listening to certain genres of music, playing board or card games, taking part in discussions and debate… the point is to engage yourself in cognitively stimulating activities as often as you are able to. Once a day would suffice, actually. Based on the studies, by exercising the brain, one may delay the onset of Alzheimer's and Dementia for a short length of time."

Harry paused and let that sink in, as well.

"But my age…" he trailed off.

Healer Humberbeck sighed, and shifted in her seat. "The statistics of the study were all targeted amongst men and women between the ages of forty and eighty. I can't make a solid inference to determine whether or not cognitive activity will actually delay the progression of your dementia, but I am very hopeful of it, Mr. Potter."

Harry nodded. "I'll do it," he assured her. It wasn't much of a sacrifice to his time, not if it meant drawing out the time he had left. Harry hadn't played Chess since he'd left Hogwarts, but he was sure Ron wouldn't mind playing him a game every so often. He could also pick up a few puzzles from Hermione—she loved those kinds of things. He didn't read much, having never been much of a reader, but that could be easily remedied; Draco had a collection of books at their house. Surely something would catch his interest.

"Mr. Potter." Healer Humberbeck interrupted his thoughts.

Harry glanced up at the elder woman, and nodded for her to speak.

"Have you spoken to your friends and family about this?"

Harry's shoulders shrunk, and he shook his head. No, he hadn't.

Healer Humberbeck frowned. She tilted her head to the side, and her large curls fell over her shoulder. "Don't you think it would be a good idea to? The dementia is already progressing, Mr. Potter, and will only get worse. Soon you will start to advance to a more moderate stage. Things need to be done, for both them and yourself. The longer you hold off on telling them, the harder it will be—especially knowing how late in the disease you are."

She tucked her folder further into her chest and looked at him sternly. "Arrangements will need to be made, and it will only be harder—for everyone—the later you let them know."

Harry sighed and pushed his sliding glasses further up his nose. He knew all this already. He'd already considered what had to be done. Or some of it, anyway, since Harry had taken to ceasing all thought as soon as everything became too overwhelming. Why dwell on what couldn't be changed? Why make the time he had left even more depressing than it was?

"For example," the Healer continued, and Harry wondered if she had been talking at him that whole time, "Where will you go during the later stages of the dementia?"

Harry looked up at the Healer sharply. "What?"

The Healer sighed. "Your living arrangements, Mr. Potter. Some people with Alzheimer's choose to live at homes that specialize in dealing with patients of dementia. Others choose to remain with their families, under the care of their own. This is something that will have to be dealt with." She paused, and then added, "Some other things to consider would be your job—I believe you're an Auror, yes?—and retirement, property ownership, money, last moment deeds or wills, debts needed to be paid off, making sure your family is well-taken care of…"

Harry stared at the back of his hand, where the faded lines that read _I must not tell lies_ etched across it. His eyes were stinging, and the lump that had managed to dislodge itself from his throat seemed to come back with a vengeance. He was going to be sick.

The Healer must have realized that Harry could go no further, because she sighed and stood from her seat.

"Here, Mr. Potter," she said, and handed over a green paper-bag.

Harry took it, slowly and shakily, but didn't open it.

"There's some more information about the disease in there—Muggle books on Alzheimer's, namely— as well as tips to make sure you continue to lead as much a normal life as possible, and resources to meet your needs. If you need anything else, do not hesitate to drop by."

That was a dismissal if he heard one, and Harry took it greedily. He shot up from his chair, clutching the bag tightly in his hand, and nodded mutely.

"Remember, Mr. Potter, that your next appointment is in two weeks. Have a good day."

"Good day," Harry murmured back, or he was sure he did. He kept his eyes to the floor and he rushed out of the office, then out of the hospital.

Harry stood a little way off from the main doors, looking up into the open sky.

He should go home. One side of his head was arguing Draco was sick, and was probably wondering where Harry was.

Harry exhaled deeply. He wasn't in the mood to see Draco just yet. More, he didn't think he could handle it. When Harry closed his eyes, and felt his body grind and his world swirl, it was with an image of Diagon Alley in his mind.

* * *

It was six in the evening when Harry finally made it to his apartment, clutching a white paper bag in his hands. He called out his arrival, a habit he'd formed years ago, and slipped off his robes and shoes.

Harry picked the bag off from where he'd set it by the mantelpiece, as well as the one full of books the Healer had given him, and padded down the hall and towards the living room in his black slippers.

"Draco?" Harry called out loudly.

There wasn't an answer.

Odd, he thought, as he plopped onto the sofa and began pulling the contents from the white bag. It was Thursday, and Draco usually left work to come home around five.

Perhaps he had to work late, and forgot to tell him.

There was that extra "or" that was floating around in the front of Harry's mind, but he bore down on it and pushed it away as far as he could.

Harry pulled the lid off a wide brown box, and pulled out a smaller one. He un-capped that one as well, until the item he'd bought in Diagon Alley was in his hands.

A Wizard's Polaroid camera.

Harry fumbled with the camera for a while, and alternated between playing with the item's gadgets and reading the rather uncoordinated manual. It took him about fifteen minutes to get the thing to work, and he tested it on himself by turning it in his hands and lifting it into the air.

He pressed the button and the sudden flash was strong enough to nearly blind him. Harry dropped the camera onto the couch beside him, and blinked rapidly in an attempt to expel the bright lights dancing before his eyes.

When he could see a bit clearer, Harry picked the camera back up and pulled the small strip of paper that was sticking out from the bottom.

Unlike in Muggle Polaroids, there was no need to wait or wave the thing around. Instant Development, the witch who'd sold it to him had boasted.

She was right, apparently, since Harry found himself looking into his copy, nose scrunched and eyes squinted from being caught off guard by the flash, with little effort on his part.

Harry cradled the camera in his hands for a while, then set it back into the box. He closed the lid, placed the camera inside the larger box, put it back in the bag, and spelled it to his bedroom.

He leaned back into the couch until he head was fixed on the sofa arm, and lifted his feet to the other side.

He didn't know what had propelled him to purchase the camera. It had caught his eye on more than one occasion throughout the years—the thought of capturing memories of a new, better life appealing—but he had never actually set out to buy the thing. They were expensive, yes, but that had never been the issue.

Harry fiddled with his fingers for a while, linking and intertwining them, before he sat up and headed for his room.

He was lying to himself. He knew the exact reason why he'd purchased the camera now, rather than before.

It was because before, there was never a rush to capture his memories. To capture his happiest moments. There'd been all the time in the world.

But there wasn't anymore. His time was running out far faster than he'd ever expected. Even during the war, when his life had always been in danger, and there'd been that lingering fear of dying, Harry had been able to _hope_ for a future. He imagined one with Draco, and his friends and family. He spent some nights daydreaming about the things they would do, instead of sleeping. He would picture him winning the war, putting an end to the madness and destruction that had been the Wizarding World back then, and living a happy life.

Harry couldn't do that anymore. When he thought of his life in one year, or five years, or forty years—everything would come out blank. Blank and empty, as he was sure it would be.

He didn't have a future, no matter how much Healer Humberbeck tried to assure him he would.

Harry moved further up the stairs, one hand trained on the wall, trailing his path.

He was only twenty-five years old. The thought of living the rest of his life, which could very well be another near-century, with his mind a blank slate, terrified him.

And then there was Draco.

Harry never allowed himself to think of what would become of his love for too long, simply because the feeling he'd get in his chest—as if someone was handling his heart in their hands and squeezing it—was excruciating. But sometimes he couldn't help but think, no matter his intentions.

What would happen to Draco when Harry had forgotten him? Would he move on? Abandon Harry and settle with another person? Find another man to live his life with and be happy?

When Harry thought about that, he'd get so sick with envy and hurt and rage that he wouldn't be able to see straight. And then he would calm down, and let remorse take him.

What was the point of Draco being with a person who couldn't remember him? He was only twenty-five, as well; he had his entire life to lead. What right did Harry have to blame him for being with someone else? What right did Harry have of condemning him to a life of loneliness? Or worse—a life full of guilt?

The thought of Draco being unhappy was worse than the thought of him moving on.

Moving on. Another issue that made Harry's insides grow cold.

He would be kept at a standstill while everyone else continued with their lives. Harry wouldn't be there when Ron and Hermione had kids, or when Kingsley finally came around to asking widowed Madam Bones to marry him. He wouldn't be around to watch Weasley Wizarding Wheezes become an international enterprise, or fairer laws for Werewolves be ratified. Harry wouldn't be there to watch his Godson, Teddy, grow up, or to watch Draco become the head of his department.

Harry stopped just before his door and placed his forehead onto the cool surface of wood. He rested one hand on the door knob, but didn't push.

Healer Humberbeck had said to him, "It's not as if you're dying. You can still be a part of your friends' and families' lives," but Harry didn't see how that could happen. How could he be a part of something he wouldn't know? Wouldn't remember?

In all truth, he would have preferred to die. To be diagnosed with a disease that killed him, rather than stripped him of his memories. That way, at least, he'd be able to leave everyone behind him with no strings attached. He would be able to see his parents again, and Sirius, and Dumbledore, and Remus, and Tonks, and Fred. He'd be with his parents, family, and friends who'd died, and though that was no replacement for being alive with the living, it was far better than being alone.

Harry swallowed heavily, and squeezed his eyes shut.

He needed to calm. He needed to calm down before he imploded, before the rush of despair and anger and frustration grew too overwhelming to handle. He was certain he'd accidentally blow up the house with his ever-growing anxiety. Draco had already been angry at him for destroying their bedroom; he would kill Harry if he destroyed their flat, too.

With another deep inhale, Harry returned his hand to the knob and pushed it open. He walked in, tiredly, and non-verbally cast _Lumos_.

The room lit, and Harry froze.

There, lying on the floor in an awkward heap, was Draco.

* * *

"Anorexia?" Harry repeated bewilderedly, staring at the Healer with wide eyes.

The Healer, a tall man with dark gray hair that fell down past his hips, nodded.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter."

"B-but," Harry spluttered, and tried to make sense of what the Healer was telling him.

The first thing Harry had done upon seeing Draco unconscious on the floor was Floo to St. Mungo's. The Healers had taken Draco into an emergency room and forced Harry to stay in the waiting area. That had been nearly fifteen minutes ago. The Healer who was speaking to him now, Andre Rumesore, had only just come out, and was explaining to Harry that the reason Draco had passed out was because of the lack of nutrients in his body. Draco was severely underweight, and showed signs of starvation.

"Draco wouldn't, Healer," Harry tried to argue. His mind was reeling. Draco _wouldn't_.

The Healer sighed. "Mr. Potter, there is no denying the signs. Amongst those, our scanners had also revealed indications of anorexia."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the door to the room Draco was in opening. A woman with blonde hair popped her head out.

"Sir? The patient is awake."

Harry made to move at that, determined to see Draco, but was stopped by a strong hand on his arm.

"Not yet, Mr. Potter. We haven't finished testing Mr. Malfoy."

"But—"

"Please wait outside until we call you in."

The Healer turned away, leaving no room for further argument, and disappeared behind white, swinging doors.

Harry sunk down into the hard, uncomfortable bench, buried his face in his hands, and waited.

* * *

For the next half-hour, Healer Rumesore had been popping in and out of the Emergency rRoom, keeping Harry notified of Draco's physical and mental status. Draco was slipping in and out of unconsciousness, and the Healers forbade Harry from entering before Draco was ready and able to see him.

The door swung open, and Harry's head shot up eagerly. Healer Rumesore nodded to him, and Harry stood up quickly and hastily made his way over.

"Mr. Malfoy is doing better now, and wishes to see you," he said, and ushered Harry along. "After you finish speaking with him, please tell one of the Mediwitches outside to alert me. There are things we need to discuss."

The Healer opened the door for Harry, and Harry nodded gratefully.

"And do take care not to upset Mr. Malfoy. He is in a vulnerable state."

Harry nodded again, and stepped inside the room. The door swung closed behind him, but he didn't make sure to see if the Healer had indeed left. Instead, he strode forward.

As Harry approached the bed, his steps began to slow. There Draco was, laying on his back with his eyes closed, almost blending with the white sheets around him. Magic charged the air, electric almost, and surrounded the bedding in a humming, soft light. Harry moved closer, and he must have made some noise, because in the next second Draco's eyes opened slowly and he turned his head.

"Hi," Harry said finally. He stopped when his knees came into contact with the bed's matting.

"Hi," Draco repeated, hoarsely.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, and leaned down to brush the stray blond hairs that had fallen down Draco's face, behind him ears.

Draco quirked his brow slightly. Harry thought he would have cracked that sardonic smirk he was so prone to doing when Harry asked obvious questions if he had been feeling any better.

"Like utter shite," he muttered after awhile, then sighed.

Harry conjured a chair and slumped into it.

"Draco—"

"I suppose the Healer told you, then." It wasn't a question.

Harry grabbed Draco's hand, which had been peaking from out of the thin covers, and squeezed. He knew what Draco was referring to.

"Yeah, he did."

Draco nodded once, then brought his gaze back up to the ceiling.

Harry broke the silence that had formed by asking, "Why?"

He knew that Draco understood what he was talking about.

Draco shrugged—or, at least he attempted to in the weak condition he was in—and continued to stare at the ceiling.

Harry squeezed the hand he held Draco's hand in, and growled, "I think you know why you've been starving yourself, Draco."

Draco's shoulder twitched again, and Harry snatched his hand away. "I'm not in the mood for games, Draco! Do you have any idea how close you came to dying? Do have any idea how I felt when I saw you there, lying unconscious on our bedroom floor, whiter than death? Merlin, Draco, what the hell is _wrong_ with you?" he exploded, and shot up from his chair.

"What," he said slowly, and tried to lessen the volume of his voice, "ever possessed you to do such a stupid, thoughtless thing?"

Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, he took note that insulting Draco was not the way to go about seeking answers from him. But he was just so angry! Angry, and frightened out of his bloody mind! What if he'd fallen asleep on that sofa instead of gone to their bedroom? What if he'd taken longer at Diagon Alley, or made another detour? Draco could have very well stopped breathing by then! And then what?

And then Harry would have found his lover dead on their bedroom floor, and he didn't know what he would do with himself.

The thought settled in his mind like a fog, and Harry fell back into the chair, his legs given out. He pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and exhaled shakily.

"You could have died, Draco," he said after a while, and cursed his voice for breaking. "You could have died, and I would have been so distressed I would have probably followed you."

He saw rapid movement in front of him, but was too lost in his own piling thoughts to pay much mind to it. The scary thing about what he'd just said is that it was true. Draco was the only thing that was keeping Harry sane at the moment. His only reason for living. If Draco had died… Harry wouldn't have been able to take it. His life was practically over, anyway. What more did he have to live for if the love of his life was gone?

He hadn't even realized he'd started to cry until a warm hand cupped his cheek and a small voice pleaded, "Don't cry, please. Please, Harry, don't cry."

Harry zoomed in on Draco's face, to see tears there as well, and released a shaky breath.

"Gods, Draco, I thought I lost you," he croaked, and grabbed the hand to his face roughly. Either Draco didn't mind the tight squeeze, or he didn't feel it.

"Please, love, _please_… I don't understand. I don't understand what you were trying to do. Were you—" Harry's voice caught, "were you trying to kill yourself?"

Draco's red eyes widened and he shook his head. "No, Harry. No. Never," he whispered.

"Then why?"

Draco gulped slowly, and glanced down.

"You," he finally said.

Harry felt as if his world had tilted.

"Me?"

Draco nodded, and shut his eyes. "Yes."

"I don't understand." Harry pleaded.

Draco sighed, and turned his head so that it once again facing the ceiling. He pulled his hand from Harry, and chewed on his lip.

"You," he started, then changed direction, "I'm not anorexic, or whatever they told you. I was just trying to lose weight."

If the circumstances had been less serious, Harry would have rolled his eyes and retorted that it was the same thing, pretty much, and that he could have guessed that for himself. Instead, he asked slowly, "But why, Draco?"

"Because you didn't want to have sex with me."

Harry froze.

"What?" he managed to get out, finally.

Draco sniffled, and Harry could tell that he was trying not to cry. "You didn't want to have sex with me, Harry. You told me I was getting fat, and right after that, plain out refused to sleep with me anymore."

Harry's mind was whirling.

"Draco, I never said you were—"

"Yes you did," Draco snapped suddenly, and turned his glare on Harry. "You _did_. The night we were at the Weaselette's house. You told me that if I kept on eating as I was, I would get fatter. _Fatter_, Harry! Because I was eating too fucking much!"

"Draco." Harry made to reach for his hand, but Draco swiped it away.

"And then you refused to sleep with me, didn't so much as fucking _look_ at me when I was all but throwing myself at you! And now you have the gall to act like—to act like you're the victim here! That it's my fucking fault this all happened!"

"Draco, wait—"

"Get out, Harry! Just fucking get out!"

His voice cracked from the effort to scream, and no less than five seconds later, the door to the room burst open.

"What is going on here?" Healer Rumesore demanded.

He looked past Harry and at the bed, where Draco was sitting up and all but vibrating with anger, and _tsked_.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but you have to leave."

"What?" Harry snapped? "No, I—"

He was suddenly grabbed by his arms by two men, and he struggled to break free.

"Get off me!" He yelled.

"You can come back in as soon as both you and Mr. Malfoy have calmed," the Healer said sternly, and turned his back on Harry.

"Draco!" Harry called, and looked toward the bed desperately.

Draco didn't even look glance at him.

"Draco," he said again, weakly. When Draco refused to turn to him once more, Harry sagged in on himself and allowed the Healers to drag him out.

They escorted him back to the waiting room and instructed him to sit still until Healer Rumesore came to get him.

Harry nodded numbly, and they shot him a final weary glance before they disappeared through the flapping doors.

Harry stared after them.

**Part Four**

Harry fell into his bed more exhausted than he'd ever felt in his life. He hadn't even taken off his coat and shoes when he entered the apartment. He went straight upstairs, probably tracking mud as he went, in a tired haze.

At the hospital, Draco had fallen asleep right after Harry had left his room. The Healer had assured Harry that it had been a natural sleep, but he wasn't quite sure of that. Draco had never been one to sleep when he was upset.

But then, Draco had never been malnourished and half-starved before, either.

Harry had used up the entire ten minutes he spent in the waiting room trying to think of when he'd ever called Draco fat. He'd almost thrown up when he recalled that he _had_ said it.

But he'd only been joking that time! Harry had been drinking just a little more than he usually did, and Draco had stolen the Apple Pie from his plate. He remembered telling Draco something along the lines of him getting fat if he kept on eating as he did, but surely Draco knew that Harry was only kidding! That Draco was the furthest thing from fat if he knew one. And even if he _had_ been fat, Harry would never had cared! Sure, he loved Draco's body—it was lithe and slim and well toned, with curves and slants in all the right places. But that wasn't the only thing he loved about him. And how could Draco _not_ know that?

_Because you never gave any indication that it wasn't,_ that voice in his head countered. _How many times have you complimented Draco on having a perfect body? How many times have you said that you loved his beautiful physique?_

Harry groaned and buried his head into the pillow. Maybe, if he pushed hard enough, he would suffocate.

He could hope.

He rolled over onto his back, and after a while, decided that his shoes were uncomfortable. He kicked them off, only struggling a little because of the perfect fit, and clenched his toes when they finally fell to the rug with a soft _thud_.

Harry non-verbally spelled off his robes—one of the few tasks he was able to without actually speaking—and pulled the futon far above his head. He closed his eyes and just laid there.

He'd been ignoring Draco.

Ever since the Healer diagnosed him with… with his Dementia, he'd been so swallowed up in self-pity that he'd completely ignored his lover. He said something hurtful to Draco, and had cast him aside.

Harry clenched his hands into fists and turned to his sides.

To him, it was perfectly normal to _not_ be in the mood for sex. He just wasn't in the frame of mind for it. And how could he be, when he was suffering from a disease? When it occupied almost every one of his thoughts, and lingered at the front of his mind like a dementor at a Quidditch game.

It was different for Draco, though. Draco didn't know what was going on with Harry. He didn't know because Harry never told him anything. All he knew was that all of a sudden his partner no longer wanted to be with him, be around him.

And Harry had gotten angry at _him_ for doing something stupid.

It wasn't Draco's fault. He'd been pushed into it by Harry. It would have been different, perhaps, if Harry hadn't taken to ignoring him—and he could see it now, that he had been. Ignoring him, avoiding him, eluding him at every turn. Draco had probably tried to reach out to him on some occasion, on some level, and in all probability, Harry had rebuffed him. He couldn't remember if he had, but he wouldn't put it past himself.

Even people from the outside had tried to help. Both Ron and Hermione had inquired about their relationship, had asked about Draco's health. Draco had even gone talking to Charlie! That should have been Harry's first clue right there. Since when did Draco talk about his problems to anyone besides Harry?

Since Harry became unavailable to him.

The corners of Harry's eyes stung, and he pressed them tightly closed.

Draco thought that Harry no longer wanted him. Harry, and no one else, had made him feel that way. He'd made Draco, the love of his life, feel unwanted. Unloved.

And as Draco said, Harry had the gall to act as if _he_ were the victim. As if he weren't at fault.

Harry pulled the covers from his face and took in a gasp of air, feeling suffocated. He curled into a fetal position, and hugged his arms over his chest.

He'd waited long enough. Draco had the right to know now, rather than later.

Harry owed him at least that much.

Harry closed his eyes and whispered _"Nox"_.

He'd tell him tomorrow.

* * *

Harry stared at the door with the number 25C engraved onto it. Draco was awake, Healer Rumesore had already told him. Had been awake since early morning. Harry had gone into work early, vaguely explained the situation to Kingsley— emphasis on the "vaguely"—and had asked for a leave from work for a week.

He didn't think that Kingsley would have given it to him, to be honest, but he did. He'd all but kicked Harry out of the Ministry, much to his surprise (and suspicion).

Harry had Flooed to St. Mungo's right after, and headed straight for Draco's room. He needed to tell Draco fast, before he got cold feet and tried to run.

He hadn't been quick enough.

Harry hesitated as he reached for the knob. He didn't know _how_ he would tell Draco. _What_ he would tell him. How in the world do you tell your loved one that you had a disease that would slowly eat away at your memories until there was nothing left?

Merlin, he didn't think he could.

How would Draco react? What would _he_ say? Would he cry? Would he get angry at Harry for withholding that information for nearly a month?

Would he leave him?

Unease fluttered about in Harry's stomach, feeling like lead and heat.

This had been a bad idea. There was no way he would be able to tell Draco. It was hard enough acknowledging it to himself most days. Maybe he could see Healer Humberbeck and ask _her_ to tell Draco for him? Or maybe he could write it in a letter and leave it for Draco to read…

The meaning of Harry's thoughts dawned on him heavily, and he scowled.

There he went again, running away from Draco. It was his own cowardice that had caused Draco to be here. That got Draco so sick. When had he grown to be such a coward? When had he become afraid to tell Draco the truth?

When the truth became too painful to deal with, he recognized.

Harry closed his eyes briefly. He mustered up all the courage he had—every iota of it he possessed—and turned the knob on the door.

He moved in quickly, once again feeling the whoosh of charged magic in the air, and shut the door behind him sharply.

Harry took a deep breath, and moved forward.

* * *

_Or_, Harry's mind provided unhelpfully as he watched Draco, who'd been staring with his lips parted at Harry for the past five minutes, _He could go into shock_.

"Draco?" Harry called quietly. He had half a mind to poke him on the arm, but he didn't dare. Quite frankly, he was a bit afraid of how Draco would react after being pulled from the trance he'd fallen into.

Harry sat at Draco's bedside, in a plush chair brought in by the Healers. There'd been tea, too, but that had been quickly discarded when Harry's hand began to tremble too much to keep the cup still. He'd placed it on the floor a half-an-hour ago. It was now forgotten.

"Draco," Harry repeated again, and leaned forward to take Draco's hand.

"Alzheimer's?"

Harry jumped, startled by the first sound to come out of Draco since Harry had finished telling him, and retreated his hand.

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

Draco looked utterly confused with his eyebrows scrunched and his mouth formed in an impenetrably tight line.

"That doesn't make any sense, Harry," he said finally. His eyes were so wide, Harry was surprised they were still on his face.

"Alzheimer's is for old people. You're not old, Harry."

Harry sighed, and reclined further into his chair. His ankles were crossed, and he was shifting them restlessly.

"I know I'm not."

"Then how could you have Alzheimer's!" Draco snapped, suddenly, as if Harry were playing a game on him that he couldn't recognize.

"It's called "Early Onset Dementia, Draco," Harry intoned, and he thought he sounded a bit like Healer Humberbeck when he said it. "Or Young Alzheimer's. It's… it's the same… _disease_… only targeted towards younger people."

"I've never heard of men in their twenties getting Alzheimer's!"

Harry smiled ruefully. "You know I've always been unique."

"This isn't funny, Harry!" Draco snapped, and Harry's small smile was wiped from his face. There went his 'make light' approach.

"So… so you're telling me what, exactly? That you're going to be losing all your memories?" Draco was shaking, and Harry wondered if he even realized he was.

"Yeah," Harry managed to get out. "That's exactly what it means."

Draco froze again. He stared at Harry—disbelievingly, accusingly—as if Harry were to blame. As if he were the reason why Draco's world must have felt, at that moment, just as disjointed and broken as Harry's had when he first found out. Just as disjointed and broken as Harry's world _still_ was.

"When did you find out?" came a whisper.

Harry didn't know why he was whispering, too. "Officially? A month ago."

Draco mouthed the words, stupidly.

"I'm sorry, Draco."

Draco shook his head, "And you didn't think, Harry, to tell me earlier than this!"

Harry sighed, tiredly. "I just… I just couldn't."

"You couldn't." Draco repeated.

"Yeah."

Draco slumped into his bed, his back so hunched over that Harry worried his spine would snap.

"You're going to lose all your memories," he stated blankly.

"Yeah." Harry's eyes began to burn again.

"In only a manner of…?"

"Months. A year. At the very latest, a year and a half."

Draco nodded slowly. "A year and a half."

"If I'm lucky," Harry swallowed.

"You're never lucky," Draco quietly said, and slunk further into his bed until he was lying down, head on his pillows, and staring up at the ceiling.

Harry laughed—a soft, almost choked laugh that made his throat burn something painful. "No, I'm not."

Draco nodded, and kept on staring up.

Harry closed his eyes, then glanced at his fists.

They both tried to be as silent with their tears as possible.

**Part Five**

The days that followed were both awkward and strained for Harry and Draco. Draco was kept at St. Mungo's until they deemed him properly fit to run a quarter mile without passing out. They prescribed him nutrient-based potions, and scheduled him for intensive therapy. Healer Rumesore had pulled Harry aside just before Draco had been able to check out and sternly warned him to keep an eye on his eating habits. Harry promised him he would.

He didn't lie.

Draco, on his part, had been eating as the Healer instructed most of the time. Harry still had to deal with the occasional complaint of "not hungry" from him, but Harry would simply bind Draco to his chair and keep him there until he promised to eat everything.

Even with Draco's eating disorder being addressed, there was still tension between them. For starters, whenever Harry tried to talk about the dementia, Draco would freeze up and avert the subject. Even an utterance of the word "Alzheimer's" around him would send him scurrying off. It was as if he truly believed that by ignoring it, it would go away. When Harry told him that he'd already tried that approach, and that it didn't work, he simply lashed out at Harry and fled to their bedroom. He would cast so many wards on the door that even Harry, an Auror, wouldn't be able to get in. Harry had found himself sleeping in one of the empty guest rooms more in the three months that followed Draco's checkout from the hospital than in the five years they'd been living together.

Harry still hadn't told his friends about the disease. He didn't know when he could. Healer Humberbeck had stressed the importance of it at least twice at each of their appointments, and Harry would simply ignore her until she gave in and moved on to other topics.

He didn't know _how_ to tell Ron and Hermione, his best friends since he was eleven. Or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who'd always acted as his surrogate parents. Harry and the Weasley family had shared so many memories together—far more than he could say about anyone else, even Draco. How could he tell them that he would be forgetting everything they ever did together? Every fight they ever fought, every battle they ever won, every birthday or death or family gathering? He just couldn't.

Perhaps he would have been able to if Draco were with him. If he'd at least had Draco's support. But he didn't, he knew he didn't, and how could he expect anything else? But it still would have been nice. Draco knowing, but pretending that he didn't, made Harry feel more alone that he'd ever felt before.

Draco didn't realize this, though, and pretended not to notice whenever Harry's growing symptoms—his increasing bouts of forgetfulness, his inability to maintain new (and old) information—showed itself in front of him.

He pretended to ignore it until he couldn't any longer.

* * *

It had been too long since Harry and Draco had dined out. They used to do it all the time—Harry, while he didn't mind cooking, usually preferred not to; and Draco, who didn't like to cook at all, simply preferred to eat at extravagant places—but had stopped when Harry lost the desire to eat in public. When he brought up dining at _Wingardium_ to Draco—his partner's favorite restaurant— Draco had smiled brilliantly at him and told him it was a lovely idea.

They were now taking their seats at the very posh French Wizarding restaurant, escorted by waiters in red silk and floppy hats.

"I almost forgot how flashy this place was," Harry commented as he sat down and pushed his chair in.

Draco followed suit and shot him a teasing frown. "It's not 'flashy', Harry. It's _designer_. There's a difference."

Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. If there was, he couldn't see it.

Their waiter, a short man named Pierre Wilmer, brought them their menus, and they quickly ordered.

"I'll have what he's having," Harry told him, returning the long booklet. He never made any attempt to read the French gibberish on the menu, and wouldn't start now.

Draco scoffed. "I could be ordering octopus testicles for all you'd know," he pointed out, mischievously.

Harry grinned at him. "I trust you to have better taste than that."

Draco sniffed, but didn't argue. And how could he, when it was true?

The waiter finally brought out their dinner—after a salad course, and a soup course, a fruit course, and a spread of appetizers so wide it could very well have been their combined entrées—and Harry decided it was as good a time as ever to break his news to Draco.

"I quit the Auror Division," he interjected abruptly, just when Draco brought his fork and knife full of pork to his mouth.

Draco's hand faltered before it reached its destination, and the strip of meat fell back to the plate with a _plop_. Harry pretended not to have noticed it.

Draco cleared his throat and set his fork down. He picked up his napkin, dabbed at the invisible food at the side of his mouth, and meticulously folded it back onto his lap. Harry didn't call out the obvious attempt at procrastination. He waited, instead, until Draco finally looked up at him.

"Oh?" he said coolly, and lifted his fork back up.

"Yeah. I handed in my letter of resignation this afternoon."

"I see," was all he said. Draco picked up his wine glass and took a generous sip. He shot it one irritated look—as if he were upset it weren't a stronger drink—before he set it back down.

"Are you upset?" Harry found himself asking.

Draco shook his head. "It was expected," he said tersely.

Harry nodded. "Yeah. My work's been too heavily affected already. Kingsley noticed too, and asked me about it, and that's when I told him."

Draco bowed his head for Harry to continue, shoulders as stiff as a board.

"He was shocked," he continued, watching Draco attentively. "Badly. I actually thought he would cry. Said he would come over for dinner sometime soon." Harry added, "He'll probably bring Madame Bones with him. Do you think he'll ever propose to her in this decade? I would like to see it happen before I—"

"Excuse me," Draco said, suddenly. He pushed his chair back and sat up, and ignored the napkin that had fallen off his lap and to the floor. "I need to use the loo."

"Oh," Harry said, slightly surprised. "Right. Go ahead."

Draco gave him a small, seemingly forced, smile, and turned away. He was out of Harry's sight in mere seconds.

Harry looked down at his plate and sighed.

* * *

After ten minutes, Harry began to grow slightly worried. What the hell was taking Draco so long? The waiter—and Harry couldn't remember his name—had already dropped by once to ask if everything was alright. Harry quickly assured him that it was and sent him off. He was wondering, now, if he should have asked the waiter to check to see if Draco was okay.

Another five minutes passed, and just when Harry was about to stand up, ready to check on Draco himself, Draco walked into his line of sight.

"Sorry," he apologized as he reached the table and assumed his seat. "My stomach was acting up."

Harry shot him a concerned look, and Draco shook his head with a smile.

"I'm alright," he said, trying to be reassuring.

Harry didn't buy it. He couldn't tell if it was because of the dim lighting of the place, but Draco appeared rather pale.

The waiter came by again and asked whether the food was not to Draco's liking. Draco reassured the man and waved him away. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with both Draco and Harry making small comments about work and friends here and there. When they pushed their plates to the center of the wide, circular table, they disappeared with a _pop_. The waiter came by with the tab, collected their Galleons, and escorted them back out.

Harry was retrieving his robe from the man at the front desk when a hand clamped over his shoulder.

He turned around, quickly, and shoved one hand into his pocket where his wand lay.

"Harry Potter, it's been a while!" A man who looked to be in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and eyes, exclaimed, and slapped Harry on the back roughly.

Harry took a step back from the man and narrowed his eyes curiously.

"I'm sorry sir, but who are you?" he asked.

The man's eyes opened wide in surprise, and then squinted small when he laughed.

"You're hilarious, Harry. So, what brings you out today? I haven't seen from you in a while. The wife and I are always—"

Harry glanced around anxiously, wondering where Draco went. He had no idea who this man was. He was acting rather familiar, though. Was he a co-worker?

"And Draco! There you are! I was beginning to wonder if Harry here came to dine by his lonesome self!"

Harry nearly sagged in relief when Draco stepped beside him, cloak already on.

"Hello, Porter. It's been a while." Draco greeted, and shook hands with the man.

Porter (apparently) beamed at him. "It has! I was just telling Harry here how the wife and I are always dining here, wondering when we'd run into you again. We thought you dropped off the face of the earth or something!"

Draco chuckled. "We haven't dined out too often lately."

Porter sighed, wistfully. "No, of course not. Your Harry can actually _cook_. The day my wife manages to boil a pot of water without burning it will be a miracle."

Draco chuckled again, and Harry scowled in frustration.

"So, Harry," Porter said, turning to him, "how's the Envionope working out for you?"

The what?

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're talking about."

Porter merely quirked a brow at him. Draco looked at him sharply.

"Still pretending you don't recognize me, are you?" he said, jovially. "Alright, Harry. I'll play along."

He let out a deep laugh, and turned when a female's voice called his name.

"And there's my Samanda, as impatient as ever." He said, shaking his head.

"Bye, Draco," he shook his hand. He turned to Harry, and forced down a grin. "And good day to you, Mr. Potter." He joked.

"Good day," Harry retorted, biting back his irritation.

Porter laughed again, waved, and headed back into the restaurant.

Harry watched as he left.

"Who was that, Draco? Have he and I met before?"

Harry turned to face him, and watched Draco nod numbly.

"Yes. He's the fellow you bought the Envionope from."

"The what?"

Draco opened his mouth to answer, then shut it and shook his head. "Nothing. I want to go home, Harry."

Harry shot another irritated look at Draco, but nevertheless nodded.

Draco was the first to pop out. Harry stared at the spot his lover had disappeared from, sighed, and followed.

* * *

**A/N: **Con crit and reviews are always welcome **=)**


	3. In Your Memory, Remember Me

**Remember Me**

**_By Reiko Katsura_**

**Rating: **R

**Pairings: **Main: Harry/Draco, Side: Hermione Ron, Mentioned/Other: Kingsley/Bones, Draco/OFC

**Warnings: **AU following OoTp

**Word**** Count: **~19,000+

**Mental Health Issues: **Early Onset Dementia, brief mention of Anorexia

**Summary:** The war's ended, and just when Harry Potter begins to believe that his fighting is over, he's proved wrong.

**A/N: **This is the final installment of this story. Thanks to everyone who reviewed! See you all at the end!

(P.S. I highly suggest listening to the song "Remember Me" by Josh Groban towards the end.)

(P.S.S. If you see any errors in my story breaks (missing, misplaced, etc...) please let me know so I can fix them. It can be confusing otherwise)

* * *

**Part Six**

**

* * *

  
**

Upon stepping foot into the house, Harry heard the startling sound of something crashing. Alarmed, he slammed the door shut and popped upstairs. The crashing sounded again, coming from the room that held all of Draco's extra belongings, and Harry rushed to it and pulled the door open.

_"Sectumsempra!"_ he heard Draco shout, wand pointed at one of the many wardrobe closets. The sound of wood crunching and snapping resonated loudly throughout the room, and the closet splintered open and came crashing down, bits of dust fluttering above it.

Harry called Draco's name, frantically, but wasn't heard. When Draco lifted his wand again, aiming at the window, Harry threw caution to the wind and rushed forward.

"Sectum—"

Draco's curse was cut off as Harry wrapped his arms around him, over his chest and arms. He heaved him back roughly, causing both their wands to drop to the floor, and shouted his name again.

"Draco, stop!"

"Get off me!" Draco screamed, and struggled manically against him. It was only his years as an Auror, apprehending his enemies physically when his wand had been irretrievable or discarded, that allowed him to keep hanging on to Draco as he thrashed and kicked about.

"Get off me, Harry! Get off!" he screamed again.

"I don't think so, Draco. You need to calm down!"

"Get off! Let me go!" Draco continued to shout, his heaving and thrashing never ceasing.

"Calm down, Draco!" Harry cried. It was difficult keeping his arms locked with the vehement fighting, but he refused to let go. Harry didn't know what was happening. He understood, however, that Draco would hurt himself as soon as he let go. That was enough reason to keep hold of him.

The struggle persisted for a while—Draco flailing wildly in his arms and shouting to be let go, and Harry struggling to do the exact opposite of what Draco demanded. When Draco, finally, began to grow tired, and his movements began to calm, Harry only squeezed tighter.

After a few moments, Draco stilled completely.

"Let me go, Harry," he asked quietly.

Harry hesitated, unsure if that was a smart idea, but chose to loosen his grip. He didn't unlock his arms, however.

Draco sighed, tiredly. "Let me go," he said again.

"Alright, Draco," Harry granted, and slowly brought his arms down.

As soon as he let go, Draco's knees gave out and he slumped to the floor. Harry rushed down, frightened.

"Draco—"

"I'm alright," he interrupted. He sniffled, and Harry grabbed his arm.

"You're not alright," Harry insisted, and grabbed Draco's chin. He lifted his face up, and tensed when he saw fresh tears rolling down his cheeks. "You're crying, Draco."

"I'm not!" he argued, and sniffled again. Draco turned his face, moving away from Harry's hand, and ducked his head so that his gaze rested on the floor.

Harry didn't let that dishearten him. He simply grabbed Draco's arm and forced him to turn around fully.

"You are," he breathed.

"I'm not," Draco said brokenly.

"You are," Harry reiterated, sighing. "Draco, I don't remember what I—"

As if Harry's words had been the trigger, Draco let out a sob so deep it shattered something inside Harry. He shifted over, closer to Draco, and pulled him into him. Draco buried his face into the crook of Harry's neck, crying and hiccoughing, and Harry wrapped his arms around him.

"That's the problem!" Draco cried, and his grip on Harry's back grew so tight it was almost painful. "You don't remember! You don't remember what you ate for breakfast yesterday morning, or if you visited Gringotts, or that you promised to take your godson out this weekend! You've even forgotten _Porter_, an actual person!"

Draco pulled away from Harry, eyes red and wide and _frightened_. "How long will it take you to forget _me_, too? How long will it be until I've been cast out from your memory? Until you give me the same confused look you gave _Porter_ and ask who I am?"

Harry watched, wretchedly, helplessly, as Draco's arms came around himself and he began to shake.

"Merlin, I don't think I can do this," Draco sobbed. "Every day, you only get worse. I try to pretend I don't see it—see the signs, see the obvious—but I _can't_. Every time you repeat yourself, or ask the same questions, or inquire about something you have known—it's killing me, Harry. _Killing_ me."

Draco looked away from Harry, and squeezed his eyes shut. "No matter what I do, or how hard I pray, it's not going away. You're getting worse. Bloody hell, you've actually forgotten a person! Who the fuck's next, Harry? Will it be Granger, or Weasley, or Andromeda? Will it be _me_?"

Draco buried his face in his hands and cried harder.

Harry sat there, tears running down his own face, frozen to the spot. The scariest thing about what Draco was asking him was that he didn't know. Couldn't reassure him that he would never forget Draco. Couldn't reassure himself. So he'd known Porter, then. Had known him, and forgotten. He wasn't oblivious to all the things he'd been forgetting in the past few months. The gaps in his memory were getting larger every day. Everyday Harry had to make excuses, or interject his own theories, to make up for the things he couldn't remember. Every night he lay in bed, staring up at the silver ceiling, and trying his hardest not to fall asleep, scared out of his mind that he'd lose another memory when he slept. What scared him the most was that he'd never know what he'd forgotten unless someone brought it up, or he saw something lying about the house, or at work, or at the Burrow, and couldn't remember the story behind it, or a story at all.

He played word games and puzzles every day. He even had a collection of small books, taken from Draco's library that he set out to read on a regular basis. But the disease wasn't slowing down. Sometimes Harry felt that there was something inside his brain, stabbing into it and cutting out chunks at a time, slowly picking away the entire thing.

"Draco—" he started, whispering.

"I can't do this anymore, Harry." He croaked.

Harry's heart felt as if it had been dropped into cold water.

"I don't think I can take this. I can't—"

"Please, Draco, please," Harry whimpered. He wasn't sure how he got his trembling body to cooperate in crawling closer to Draco, but he did. He clamped his hands over Draco's and squeezed as hard as he could, for all he was worth. "Please, don't say that."

"But Harry—"

Harry moved forward and pressed his lips to Draco's. It was nothing but a soft brush of lips, moist and salty from both their tears, but it gave Harry a little more energy to speak. He needed it, badly.

"You can't, Draco. You're the only thing keeping me sane. The only reason I have to wake up each morning. Please, don't leave me. I'll die without you, Draco. I'll _die_."

Draco gasped loudly, trying to take in the air he couldn't while crying. "I'm going to break, Harry. I can't stand this anymore, wondering when the day will come when you'll no longer remember me. This is killing me, Harry. Please—"

"Don't ask me to let you go, because I won't," Harry said fiercely, though his voice cracked. He wouldn't. He couldn't. "I can't make it through without you. You know I can't. Stay with me, please. Until the very end. Please, Draco. Please."

Draco shuddered against Harry's neck, violently. "You're so selfish, Harry Potter, asking me to do that. Asking me to suffer."

"I'm sorry." And he was. But he wouldn't take it back.

"And what am I going to do when you forget everything? What then?"

It hurt Harry so much to say, so very much, but he managed to say the next words without faltering. "You'll move on."

Draco tensed, and made to pull away, but Harry secured his body against his by tugging him closer.

"You will, Draco. You will," he promised against his lover's ear. It would hurt, but that's what Harry wanted. Needed. Draco had to move on when everything was over. It was the only way Harry would be able to get peace of mind, memories of his love forgotten or not.

"If… _when_," Harry amended, because both he and Draco couldn't lie to themselves any longer. "When I forget everything, you will forget about me, too."

Harry silenced Draco's protest by kissing him on his ear. "You'll move on. You won't need to care for me, then—I would never ask that of you. You can sell this house if you want. What's in my Gringott's account—most of it will be yours. You'll continue working where you are now until you become head of your department. You'll meet another man who will make you happy, and maybe adopt a few kids."

Harry had to raise his voice a little higher, to be heard over Draco's muffled sobbing. "You'll move on, and you'll be happy. All I ever want for you is happiness, love. You know that. You're so strong, there's no doubt you will be able to find it."

Draco shook his head against quickly, and Harry moved on hand to cup it still.

"You will," he said, forcefully. He would. Harry was sure of it.

"But right now, Draco, I need your support. I need to know that you'll stand by me. I need someone to stay by my side, holding my hand. I can't do this by myself, Draco. Please don't make me." Harry exhaled shakily. "It's so selfish of me, I know. But I need you to be there for me. Please."

A whole minute must have passed before Draco finally nodded.

"Thank you," Harry breathed, relieved, and kissed his ear again.

"I don't want you to forget me," Draco whispered.

Harry bit down the urge to reassure him. To reassure himself.

"I don't, either," he said honestly.

Harry and Draco sat there for long moments more, simply holding each other.

* * *

The next morning, when Harry was stumbling around for his wand, he came upon a brown box in a white paper bag.

"Is this yours, Draco?" he asked, curiously, and lifted up the bag so Draco could see from the bed.

Draco squinted his eyes thoughtfully, then shook his head. "No, I don't think so." He paused, and then said lowly, "Maybe it's yours… and you just forgot."

Harry sent his lover a small smile. Draco was acknowledging his forgetfulness, then. It wasn't a guarantee that Draco was comfortable with his condition yet—he didn't believe he could ever fully be, either of them, and anyway, Harry would never ask Draco that—but it was definitely a first step.

"Maybe," Harry nodded. He tried to think back to when he might have purchased anything that came in a white bag, but his mind was blank.

Shrugging, Harry moved towards the bed, plopped onto it, removed the box from the bag, and began to pull open the lid. There was another blank box inside.

He felt Draco move closer, probably more eager to see what was inside than he was. Harry chuckled when Draco made an impatient noise, and opened the smaller box.

He frowned when he pulled out a camera.

"I don't remember buying a camera," Harry murmured, playing with the thing in his hands.

Draco didn't say anything. He opened his palm out and gave Harry an expectant look, and Harry obliged him by placing the camera in his palm.

"It's been a while since I've used one of these," he murmured, and began playing around with the knobs on the large, black object.

"Ooh," Draco breathed delightedly, "It's a Wizard's Polaroid Camera! Instant development, you know."

Harry frowned, feeling _deja vu_.

"Harry," Draco called, suddenly.

Harry looked up quickly then yelped, clutching his eyes closed from the bright flash of the camera.

"Draco, you prat!" Harry snapped, rubbing at his irritated eyes. As soon as he was able to see again, he growled at Draco and launched at him.

Draco laughed, and moved quickly off the bed. When Harry made to go after him, he flashed the camera again, momentarily blinding Harry for a second time and causing him to fall off the bed.

"You're going to get it, Draco!" he threatened, blinking rapidly.

Draco laughed and taunted, "Sounds kinky, Potter!"

Harry lifted himself off the floor and began the chase again, careful to watch out for another onslaught of flashes, and grinned when he finally remembered he was a Wizard.

"_Accio_ camera!" he shouted. The camera was ripped from Draco's hands in an instant, and in the next landed in his own palm.

"Say 'Cheese', Malfoy," Harry smirked.

Draco was too busy shooting Harry a confused look, no doubt wondering what the hell "Saying Cheese" had to do with anything, to defend himself against the flash.

They spent the entire day simply enjoying each other's company, and creating memories for the moment.

* * *

"You must be Draco Malfoy," Healer Humberbeck greeted him with a smile, "Harry's told me a lot about you."

Harry rolled his eyes as he walked past his Healer and Draco shaking hands. He was quite sure that he hadn't spoken of Draco that much around the Healer. He was also a bit sure that she'd never called him by his first name before.

Harry sat down in his usual chair, right across from the Healer's desk. He hadn't noticed that another chair had been set up until Draco sat next to him.

"So Harry's told you about his Dementia, I gather?" the Healer asked, looking pleased.

Draco nodded. Harry fiddled with his fingers.

"Do you have any questions, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Call me Draco," Draco asked.

"Draco, then."

"As for your question… none for the time being."

When the Healer quirked a brow at Draco, Harry explained, "For the past two weeks, Draco's been reading everything on Alzheimer's that he could get his hands on. I'm sure he probably knows more about it than you do, Healer."

He heard Draco snort from beside him, and gave him a small smile.

"Great job in keeping to your appointments as well, Harry." The Healer said.

Harry flushed a little. "Draco had to remind me today, actually," he admitted.

"I see. Well, Harry, I would like to run a few scans on you today, if you wouldn't mind."

Harry scowled, and had half a mind to tell the Healer that yes, he did mind, but quelled under the stern look Draco shot him.

"Alright," he muttered, irritated.

"Healer Thomas," and as if on cue, the door to the office opened, "will be conducting your scans for today. While you're with him, it will give Draco and I a chance to talk for a little bit."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, because he'd rather have Draco with _him_ than with the Healer, but shut it when a hand wrapped around his.

"Don't worry, Harry. I'll still be here when you get back."

He looked over at Draco sullenly. These days, he didn't like being apart from Draco for even a few moments. When Draco went off to work, Harry was always left with nothing to do, and feeling unusually anxious.

"Alright," he sighed, and stood up. He shot his Healer a suspicious look before he turned around and walked over to Healer whatever-his-name-was. They left the room quietly.

* * *

Harry's scans were over fairly quickly. Healer Thomas (who had to remind him what his name was no fewer than three times) simply performed Harry's usual analyses, plus a few that he'd never done before, jotted everything down on a white clipboard, helped him get dressed—much to Harry's annoyance—and escorted him back to Healer Humberbeck's office. Harry knocked on the door twice before he opened it.

As soon as he entered, Draco's head snapped back, and Harry noticed that his eyes were red and puffy, as if he'd been crying.

"What's going on here?" Harry demanded, rushing towards Draco.

"I'm alright, Harry," Draco said, rubbing the palm of his hand over his eyes. "We just talked, is all."

"You were crying, Draco!" Harry argued.

Draco shot him an irritated look.

"I've been doing that quite a lot the past few weeks, haven't I?"

Harry sighed. He knew he wasn't going to get anything else out of him.

Healer Thomas gave Healer Humberbeck the chart he'd been writing on, nodded at her, and all but rushed out of the room.

"Hm," she murmured, raking her eyes over the report. "I see. Please, Harry, take a seat. We should discuss your latest scans."

Harry hesitated, suddenly tentative. He glanced at Draco, who shot him a thin, reassuring smile, and slowly sat.

When Draco slunk his hand into Harry's and squeezed, Harry felt as if a bit of the weight that had fallen on his shoulders had fallen off. He squeezed back.

* * *

**:Part Seven:**

**

* * *

  
**

Harry had been right. Telling Ron and Hermione had been a lot better—not easier, but better—with Draco beside him, holding his hand.

His two friends had taken it… well, a bit like Harry had expected them to. Ron had been so angry that Harry hadn't told him—had lied to him, even, since he said that he'd only quit the Auror Division because he wanted a change of career—that he'd stormed to his room and slammed the door. He came back out nearly an hour later, face blotchy and eyes as red as his hair.

Hermione's reaction, on the other hand, had been a little more unnerving. She'd frozen on the spot, and both Harry and Draco had been so afraid that she was going to pass out that they'd carried her like a board to the couch. After almost ten minutes, she finally started asking questions—a relief, since Harry had been expecting _that_. The questions had been difficult to answer, and some of them even impossible, but Harry, and sometimes Draco, tried their best to answer them. When Hermione finally got it through her endearingly bushy head that there wasn't a cure for Alzheimer's, and that no amount of research or experimentation on her part would be able to cure Harry's dementia, she'd broken down and begun to cry.

Harry stayed with her the whole time, one hand rubbing circles on her back, and the other hand squeezing Draco's.

They'd spent the entire day at Hermione and Ron's house, simply talking and explaining, crying (on Harry's, Hermione's, and surprisingly Ron's part) and letting everything sink in. As soon as Hermione promised that she would be reasonable with her "research" (since Harry couldn't get her to knock that idea down completely), and she in turn made Harry promise to visit far more often than he was doing at the moment (at least five times a week, she ordered), they hugged each other and parted ways.

Harry and Draco Apparated home and began tearing off each other's clothes as soon as they'd closed the door behind them. They tumbled into the living room and up the stairs, in between snogging and touching and stripping, until they were both naked on their bed, rolling around breathlessly.

That sex session, one of many since the night after they dined out, was quick and desperate. They both came, the other's name on their lips, in less than fifteen minutes. They didn't even bother to clean up their mess as they shimmied under the covers, drowsy and content.

* * *

Draco woke up with a groan. His arse was aching, bruised from his and Harry's latest bout of love-making. Harry had been especially energetic last night, thrusting into Draco fervently, leaving marks from his mouth and fingers and nails on every inch Draco's skin.

Not that Draco could complain, since he quite enjoyed a feisty Potter.

He rolled onto his back, careful not to wake Harry—who was slumbering underneath him—as he moved.

The last few months had been a struggle, all things considered, with Harry's growing dementia. He'd been forgetting more and more things every day—places, names of things, events, people. Draco had even taken the past month off (choosing to work at home) to care for him properly. It was a setback in his goal to become head of his department, but it couldn't be helped. Harry needed him. Felt comfortable around him. He'd care for him as long as he needed to, which in this case was until the end of the week when the private Healer he'd hired would move in.

It hurt Draco, more than anyone could possibly know, to watch Harry becoming incapable, most days, of doing even the simplest tasks. Some days Harry couldn't even use the bathroom by himself. Some days he wouldn't eat, or sleep, or sometimes speak. When things got particularly bad, he could always rely on Ron and Hermione, or any of the Weasleys, really, to Floo over and assist him. But he couldn't call on them all the time, just as he couldn't continue working from home forever. It was essential that Harry have a Private Healer, Draco knew. He couldn't care for him by himself, as much as he would have liked to. Harry required certain assistance that no amount of reading would make Draco able to administer. They were needs that only a trained Healer would be able to provide for.

Draco sighed, and turned over.

Harry looked so calm sleeping. It wasn't as if he wasn't always calm—no, more often than not he was as good-natured as he'd always been. Lately, however, he'd been having mood swings; far worse than he'd had before. Those times, Draco didn't know how to handle him at all.

With another sigh, Draco reached over and twirled a rather long lock of curly black hair in his fingers.

It was out now, Harry's dementia, to the public. The first article published, not unsurprisingly by the _Daily Prophet's_ Rita Skeeter, had been printed last week. Draco was amazed, however, that news hadn't leaked sooner. Harry's healer, Humberbeck, had taken great measures to try to prevent an outburst in the media. She'd done a great job at keeping the news secret for nearly thirteen months.

Harry groaned quietly, and furrowed his brows. Draco chuckled, amused, and continued playing with his hair. It was already ten in the morning, and it wasn't as if Harry had gone to bed late. He was often tired those days, though. Draco always teased him that he was becoming a bear; he had the hair to go with it, too, all fuzzy and big.

Harry suddenly hummed, and a small smile played on his lips.

"Feels good," he slurred, sleepily.

"I'm sure it does," Draco laughed quietly. His hand had moved further up Harry's head, and was now massaging the mass of hair above his scalp.

"You ready to wake up now, Harry? I think it's time for breakfast."

Harry nodded, eyes still closed.

"You'll have to open your pretty green eyes, then," Draco teased.

Harry smiled wider. He opened his eyes slowly until they were half-open.

His eyes furrowed slightly, and his smile dimmed a little, though didn't disappear completely.

"Morning," he said quietly, staring into Draco's smoldering eyes. "And who are you?"

Draco's world suddenly tilted, and crashed.

"Harry?" he whispered. His hand hadn't moved from Harry's head, but instead lay there frozen.

"Yes, that's me." He frowned, then added, "I think, at least."

Draco laid there, staring at Harry with wide eyes. _No_, he thought frantically. _Merlin, no. Please, no no no no no no…_

"Sorry, I don't think I caught your name. Who are you again?"

Draco and Healer Humberbeck had been preparing for this moment for months, been preparing for the exact way he'd react towards Harry if he ever forgot him. He was to pretend that everything was fine. He wasn't to go into hysterics and risk upsetting or alarming Harry. He wasn't to get mad and force him to remember. He wasn't to scream at him, or yell at him, or hit him…

"Draco," Draco whispered. "Draco Malfoy."

He wasn't supposed to have started crying, either.

But he did, and Draco couldn't have stopped even if he wanted to.

* * *

**:Part Eight:**

* * *

_Twenty Years Later_

"Where are you going, Draco?" Leila asks me as I shrug my robe on and pocket my wand.

"To visit Harry," I say.

She rolls her blue eyes upward. I know she wants to complain that I just visited him yesterday, but she doesn't. I let her know, before we began dating and before we got married, that I was in love with someone else. That I would always love someone else. Why she still married me, I haven't an idea.

"Right, right," she says grumpily, and waves me off. "Just be back in time to pick the kids up at the station. I have a conference today and won't be able to make it."

I nod and walk over to her. She gives me a weary look before tipping on her toes and leaning toward me. I kiss her square on her mouth and cup her cheek in my hand.

"I love you," I tell her. It's not a lie. I love Leila very much. She's the woman I chose to marry and move on with. She's the woman who bore my children. I love her dearly.

"I know," she replies with a small smile.

And she does know—that no matter how many years pass, she will never have first place in my heart.

"Let's have dinner later, then? We can go to _Wingardium_. Bring the kids."

She nods, appeased, and shoos me off with a final warning not to be late.

I glare at her teasingly and leave.

The walk to where Harry's at is a short one, being only four blocks away from where I currently live. He still resides in the house we used to live in, living with his Private Healer and her family. I moved out just after I asked Leila to marry me. I didn't dare move too far, however, and settled for buying a house less than half-a-mile away. Sometimes I still think it's not close enough. If I had any less respect for Leila, I would have moved my family in long ago.

My magical signature is still embedded on the door to our old flat, and I walk in easily. I don't bother taking my shoes or robe off as I wont be staying long. I cast _Tempus_ with my wand and nod. Twenty-minutes, then, and I'll have to be off.

I walk into the living room, taking in the small amount of changes made to it even after all these years. Though the house is mostly occupied by the Healer, who cares for Harry, and her family, they've only made the bare minimum of changes to adjust to the larger number of people. I can't say that I don't appreciate it.

I knock on Harry's door—which used to be _our_ door—and walk in. Healer Evy cranes her head towards me, from where she's fixing Harry's bedding, and smiles.

"Draco," she greets me cordially. "Here again?"

I smile at her and nod. "Yes. How is he today?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes. "A right flirt today. I just managed to get him into bed an hour ago. Kept complaining that if I'd just dye my hair blond, or turned into a man, he could finally have some arsenal to go after me."

I chuckle despite the tightness in my throat.

"Would it be alright if I had a moment alone with him?"

Evy smiles at me sweetly and beckons me in. She nods at me a final time before slipping out and closing the door behind her. I face away from the door and look towards the bed.

The windows are open, casting Harry in a soft gleam of light. He's a bit paler than I ever remembered him being, but I know it's due to him not going outside most days. I move forward, until my knees are touching the bed, and smile down at him.

He doesn't look as if he's forty-five years old, especially when he's sleeping. He barely looks past thirty-five. His hair is still full and thick, matted dark and wild above his head. I lean down and brush the fringe from his forehead, then trace the outline of his thunderbolt scar with my fingers.

Harry. My Harry.

He twitches, but doesn't move. I continue to play with his hair, a habit I'd formed even before he became bedridden.

The day Harry forgot who I was, a recollection that still made my heart clench painfully in my chest, was only the first of many more days of memories to be forgotten. Shortly after that day, he began losing more and more people. First was Teddy, then Andromeda, then Kingsley. The last person Harry seemed to forget was Ron. Ironic, that.

He did remember them, sometimes, or at least past versions of their selves. Evy always tells me that whenever Ron and Hermione come to visit, which is quite often, Harry would always go into tales of their Hogwarts days. The last time the three of us—Ron, Hermione, and I—had visited at the same time (which was almost two weeks ago), Harry had shouted at Ron for leaving him and Hermione behind in a tent. I had only an idea of what Harry was talking about, since he only ever discussed with me a bit of what happened during our supposed seventh year. Ron had been shaken up, though, and wouldn't stop apologizing for it.

I continue to massage Harry's scalp, lost in thought, until the head underneath my hand moves.

When I look down, Harry is opening his eyes.

_Oops_, I think with a smirk. Evy is going to kill me for waking him up.

Harry opens his eyes, still as emerald-green as ever, and peers up at me. He simply stares, tiredly, and just as I'm about to introduce myself—a routine I repeat during most of my visits—he opens his mouth and speaks.

"Draco?" he asks, curiously.

My breath catches. I swallow heavily, and force my heart to stop pounding. So today's a good day, then.

"Good afternoon, love." I tell him, smiling.

He furrows his brows. "Why do you look older?" he asks suspiciously.

Well practiced, I reply smoothly, "I was hit with a misfired spell today. Don't worry. I'll return to my regular age in a few hours."

He nods, satisfied, and smiles.

"I feel like I haven't seen you in ages," he starts rambling, "though I know we just went out to Wingardium yesterday. We should go again today, Draco. Do you think Porter will be there? I really want to buy that Envionope he invented, but he's being a right git about it. 300 Galleons is a bit much, don't you think? He's so unreasonable! I like his wife, though. Samanda, is it? She's a nice girl."

I listen to Harry go on and on about events that happened nearly thirty years ago, as if they took place just yesterday, and fight against my burning eyes.

Days like this—when Harry remembers who I am—are always the best. They don't happen often, though. Not often enough.

The wand in my pocket jerks, and I pull it out. The tip is shining red. My twenty minutes are up; it's time to go.

"I need to leave, Harry," I tell him softly, interjecting as soon as he takes a break to breathe.

His eyes widen. "What? Why!"

I exhale deeply, and come up with a lie on the spot. Anything to not confuse him further. Anything to keep him content.

"I have the Ministry function today," I say. "I probably forgot to tell you, though, since it slipped my mind as well."

Harry furrows his brows, apparently trying to think back to recall if I might have told him, then nods.

"You probably did," he agrees moodily.

I smile at him, and take a step back to leave, but stop when his hand moves out unusually fast and grabs for mine.

"Don't go," he says suddenly. Vehemently. "Skip it."

I frown at him. This has never happened before.

"Why?" I know I shouldn't press, should simply stress the importance of leaving and do just that. But I can't—not when he's looking at me so desperately.

He looks so confused for a moment. "I don't know. I just feel like you shouldn't leave. Like if you leave, you won't come back."

Something—everything—lodges itself in my throat, and I work fast to swallow it down.

"Don't be silly," I say tightly. My eyes are burning again. "You know I'll be back soon. Don't I always come back?"

He looks confused for a second more, then nods hesitantly.

"You do, don't you," he says, unsurely.

"I do." I don't need to make myself sound convincing, because I'm not lying, then. I'll always return to him.

"See you later, then?" he asks, and then yawns.

"Of course," I reply, and push him down onto the bed.

"Go to sleep, love." I order him.

He smiles, just a little stretch of his lips, and whispers, "Kiss me, Draco."

I don't hesitate. I lean forward and press my lips to his. The contact—only a slight brushing of lips—makes every inch of my skin ignite and tingle. It's a feeling I could never get with my wife. It's a kiss I can never share with anyone else.

He closes his eyes, and begins speaking gibberish to me.

I don't know what possesses me to ask, but I find myself blurting out in the spur of the moment, "And you'll remember me when you wake up?"

Harry smiles through his sleepy haze, soft lines of age that had never been before stretching around his lips, and says, "Of course, Draco. You know I'll always remember you."

I didn't expect him to answer. I wasn't even sure he'd heard.

But he did.

And he had.

"Harry," I croak, but he's already sleeping, snoring lightly.

I stare at him for a moment, tears gathering at my eyes, then turn around quickly.

I walk out of the room and close the door quietly, then move downstairs and to the door. I walk two blocks down, toward the empty alley, hands clenched in my pocket.

He remembered me. For that tiny moment, so short I didn't have the time to reply, Harry had remembered me. Not me from fifteen years ago, or twenty-five years ago, or thirty years ago; but the me of today. The _us_ of today.

He remembered.

And somewhere deep in my heart, I know that it will be the last time.

I close my eyes, exhale shakily, then smile—and Apparate out.

* * *

**Finis**.

* * *

_Remember, I will still be here  
As long as you hold me, in your memory_

_Remember, when your dreams have ended  
Time can be transcended  
Just remember me_

_I am the one star that keeps burning, so brightly,  
It is the last light, to fade into the rising sun_

_I'm with you  
Whenever you tell, my story  
For I am all I've done_

_Remember, I will still be here  
As long as you hold me, in your memory  
Remember me_

_I am that warm voice in the cold wind, that whispers  
And if you listen, you'll hear me call across the sky_

_As long as I still can reach out, and touch you  
That I will never die_

_Remember, I'll never leave you  
If you will only  
Remember me_

_(Remember me...)_

_Remember, I will still be here  
As long as you hold me  
In your memory_

_Remember, when your dreams have ended  
Time can be transcended  
I live forever  
Remember me_

_Remember me  
Remember... me..._  
~"Remember Me" by Josh Groban

* * *

**A/N:**

And that is the end of "Remember Me". I hope the ride was as educational, informative, eye-opening, and watery as it was for me. Review, please, and tell me what you think (or thought, anyways)!

'Til Next Time,

~Reiko.


End file.
